The Improbable Truth
by MargyW
Summary: Sherlock falls foul of a powerful black witch whilst undertaking an investigation. It's up to John, assisted by Mycroft and a friend of Harry's to find out exactly what has happened and hopefully get Sherlock back safe, sound...and sane.


**221B BAKER STREET**

"They found him where?" John cocked his head at Mycroft.

Mycroft sighed, and looked at his little brother curled up on the sofa. "In the street outside a brothel called "The Golden Queen" otherwise known as 'The Queen of Hell'."

"He went there to investigate a blackmail case," John mused, running a hand through his hair.

Mycroft frowned. "My people ran toxicology screens, but they come up clean. Sherlock has not taken, or been forcibly given, any drug that we know of. But…" He gestured helplessly at the sofa.

Sherlock raised his head, looked around, and mewed delicately.

"THIS is the result. My brother seems to think he is a cat!"

Sherlock butted his head against John's hand. John began to stroke Sherlock's hair. A warm rumble came from Sherlock's throat. "He doesn't think he's a cat, Mycroft. He is one. Somehow, some way, someone has done this to him." Having spent time on the sub-continent, John had seen many things that most rational people would deem impossible.

Mycroft sighed. "The brothel's proprietor, Erica DeLaMere, also known as Madam Estelle, is…"

"Currently helping police with their enquiries?" John asked.

Mycroft shook his head grimly. "Oh no. The police have rules how long you can hold people and the necessity of charges. My people, on the other hand, do not."

"Shouldn't you be there?"

"Not necessary. Anthea has it under control. I feel I need to stay with Sherlock. Not that you can't look after him, Doctor Watson, but…"

John nodded. "You feel helpless seeing him like this. Me too." He paused. "Is there anything we know about this Madam Estelle that might help us find out what happened?"

"As it happens, Miss DeLaMere has a reputation amongst some circles as a witch. A black witch."

"A witch," John said heavily.

"I assure you, my information is correct."

"I'm not doubting you, Mycroft. It's just I think I might be able to help there."

"Oh?"

"My sister has some very interesting friends. Including a very powerful witch."

"Really?"

"That's what Harry claims." John paused again. "It can't hurt to ask."

"No. It can't." Mycroft paused. Sherlock pulled away from John's hand and got down onto the floor. He sat down with a thump, lifted his right leg in the air, and proceeded to attempt to lick his bum. Mycroft winced. "Can't you get him to wear clothes?"

"For all intents and purposes, Mycroft, Sherlock is a cat. Cats don't wear clothes outside of cartoons." John sighed. "You saw what happened to the clothes he was wearing."

"Indeed. Only fit for rags." Mycroft looked at John. "I will put a car at your disposal."

"Thank you."

** A COTTAGE IN A SMALL VILLAGE IN SOMERSET**

John sipped at the cup of herbal tea politely. Frankly the tea, which he privately thought of as stewed weeds, was not to his taste. His hostess curbed a smile at his expression.

"I'm sorry I don't have any black tea or coffee." Her voice had a soft Californian accent.

"It's fine. Fine. Sorry, just not used to…" He gestured at the cup.

The red headed woman smiled and sat across the small coffee table from him. "Herbal teas are an acquired taste. Now, Harry said you had a problem?"

"Yeah. It's a long and pretty unbelievable story. Short version: my best friend has been turned into a cat."

"A cat?"

"Well not physically, but mentally. He doesn't speak; he meows. Won't have a bath; he licks himself."

"I get the point. But why consult me? It sounds like something a psychiatrist should deal with."

"It's just that before this happened Sherlock was investigating a brothel run by a woman named Erica DeLaMere also known as..."

"Shit!"

John blinked. "Excuse me?"

"You've got a problem. That bitch has a very nasty, but well deserved reputation."

John bit his lip. "I was afraid of that. Is there nothing you can do?"

"I didn't say that. First, we have to find the cat."

"What cat?"

"The cat that now holds your friend's soul."

"Soul? Wait! What?"

"There has been some talk that Estelle had perfected a spell that's known, but never attempted. A spell to swap souls between two living creatures. Somewhere in London there is a very confused cat."

"Wait." John's brain was buzzing with confusion at the proposition the witch had so casually put forward. "Sherlock is highly intelligent. He's a genius. Even if he is currently residing inside a cat. Surely he'd find his way home?"

The woman paused, "There have been no stray cats around?" Her face expressed concern.

"Not that I've noticed."

"Then we could have an even bigger problem."

"I was afraid you were going to say that."

**THE GOLDEN QUEEN BROTHEL**

The brothel was empty except for Mycroft's people silently standing guard. John and his witch companion searched the entire building from top to bottom with no sign of a feline presence.

Exhausted, they went out into the delicate rose garden to rest. John rubbed a hand across his face. "It has to be here. If you're correct, she couldn't risk Sherlock-cat getting away."

The witch was staring, eyes troubled, at a patch of garden bed four feet away from them. It had clearly been dug up recently. "John…"

He followed her eyes, and then her train of thought. "Oh fuck! NO!"

Falling on his knees, John began to scoop out the dirt with his hands. A few moments frantic clawing revealed the corpse of a mangy grey cat, its neck twisted grotesquely.

The witch made a choking sound behind him. John raised his head, his eyes blurring with tears, the cat's weight light and insubstantial in his hands. "She murdered Sherlock. Broke his fucking neck." He broke into harsh sobs.

A cool hand came down on his shoulder. "We need to get to get to Baker Street. It may not be too late. If his soul hasn't traveled far maybe…"

John gently wrapped the decaying cat in his jacket. "Let's go."

**221B BAKER STREET**

Mycroft woke up, startled. He had fallen asleep in Sherlock's chair. Sherlock had been curled up on the rug in front of the fireplace. Mycroft looked around. No sign of Sherlock.

Mycroft got to his feet and looked around warily. "Sherlock," he called. Then he grimaced. "Puss. Puss, puss, puss. Come here, Puss." There was a noise from Sherlock's bedroom. A sort of distant mewing.

Mycroft headed down the hall and froze in the doorway of Sherlock's room. Sherlock was curled, naked, on the open window sill. He blinked sleepily at Mycroft.

Mycroft moved slowly towards him, holding out his hand. "Good kitty…"

Sherlock yawned, stretched… and fell out of the window with a shriek of terror.

Mycroft leaped across the room in horror.

**BAKER STREET**

Getting out of Mycroft's car, clutching the dead cat in his coat, John heard the terrible shrieking cry from within. He burst through the front door of 221. Mycroft was racing down the stairs, his face white with fear.

"What happened?"

"Sherlock was sleeping on the window sill and fell out!"

"Oh Jesus!"

Both men went crashing through Mrs Hudson's flat and out of her back door, Mrs Hudson and the witch on their heels.

Sherlock lay in a heap on the ground. He was unconscious. John bent over him. "Get an ambulance, Mycroft. NOW!"

John took Sherlock's vitals. The pulse was slowing, dropping away. "No. You might be a bloody cat, Sherlock, but I'm not letting you go without a fucking fight!"

His mouth closed over Sherlock's as he commenced mouth-to-mouth.

After what seemed like an eternity, gentle hands lifted him away as paramedics snapped an oxygen mask over Sherlock's face, slid a back board under him and lifted him gently onto a gurney.

**ST BART'S HOSPITAL – 4 HOURS LATER**

Mycroft handed a cardboard cup of coffee to John. "Any more news?"

John took a sip of the brew. He wrinkled his nose. To be honest, the witch's herbal concoction was better than this. John shook his head. "He's stable. But he's still out. Neuro has been by, made some noises, then fucked off again."

John sighed. "How's Mrs Hudson?"

"Shaken, but ultimately all right. Your friendly witch is keeping her company. Apparently she's advising Mrs Hudson on better herbal soothers than the ones she currently takes."

John issued a short laugh.

There was a noise from the bed. Both men swung around. Sherlock's eyelids were fluttering and he was attempting to drag the oxygen mask off.

"Sherlock! Leave it alone!"

"No," came the grumbling baritone reply.

John and Mycroft froze, looked at each other, looked back at the bed, then back at each other again.

"What the hell is wrong with you two? You look like you've seen a ghost. And what am I doing in hospital?"

To Sherlock's surprise, John flung himself at him and buried his head in his shoulder, whilst choking back sobs. He raised a querying eyebrow at Mycroft. Sherlock was startled to find his brother's face a mask of very similar emotion to John's.

"Welcome back, little brother."

Mycroft's mobile rang, and he stepped out of the room to answer it.

John pushed himself to his feet, wiping his eyes with the back of his hand. "John, what happened?"

"Sherlock, how much do you remember?"

"Sherlock frowned. The madam of the brothel caught me. I remember her saying that curiosity killed the cat, and then laughing. After that it's all grey and blurred. I recall a sharp pain in my neck and I seem to remember feeling like I was floating. And dirt on my face…" His voice trailed off. Sherlock looked at his friend, whose face was twisted with emotion. He felt a chill of unaccustomed fear trickle down his spine.

"What happened, John?" Sherlock asked again.

John took a deep breath. "It's like this…"

Mycroft came back into the room, an odd expression on his face. Both men looked at him. "Madam Estelle is dead."

"What? How? Did your people get a little over enthusiastic in their questioning?"

"No. They were talking to her, trying to get her to explain what she had done. Then…" Mycroft paused, the odd expression came back.

"Then what, Mycroft?" John asked softly.

"She died. Her carotid artery burst."

"Burst? That's not really possible. Wait, you mean an aneurism?"

The odd look intensified. "No." Mycroft swallowed convulsively. "While Anthea was questioning her, Madam Estelle suddenly screamed, and arched up in the air, blood spraying from her throat. When they got to her…" He swallowed again, and his voice dropped to a whisper, "…Anthea said it looked like her artery had been torn out by a cat, probably about the size of a house cat."

John thought of the decaying bundle wrapped in his jacket that was currently laying in their backyard.

"When…when did this happen?"

Mycroft was ghostly white. "As far as we can ascertain, it was at the precise moment that Sherlock came back to us…"

**221B BAKER STREET – 24 HOURS LATER**

Sherlock hadn't really objected to being put to bed once he got home. He was shaken and disturbed by the story John and Mycroft had told him.

John's witch friend, who finally introduced herself as Willow, checked him over and pronounced him okay, then gave him her number. "You ever want to talk about this, call me." She winked at him. "I'll understand better than any psychiatrist will."

Sherlock had smiled wanly and thanked her for helping John. "It was no trouble. People like Estelle need to be stopped. They can't stop themselves." Her face went sad for a moment, "Trust me on this."

Mrs Hudson and Willow had interred the cat under a rose bush in Mrs Hudson's garden, Willow building a cairn of stones on the little grave.

When everyone had gone, Sherlock sat propped up in his bed, a cup of tea in his hands. John sat on the end of his bed, just looking at him.

"What I can't understand is how you could accept what Willow said. It's so fantastical. It's not rational. Anyone else would've left me…" Sherlock swallowed down his fear.

John took the cup from Sherlock's hands and placed it on the bedside table. He took his friend's hands in his. "I remembered what you said."

"And that was?"

"When you have eliminated the impossible, whatever remains, however improbable, must be the truth. We knew it wasn't drugs or psychosis. Hell, Mycroft even had a reputable hypnotist look at you. It had to be an improbable truth."

Sherlock leaned forward and rested his forehead against John's, fear fading. His John would never leave him to die without fighting every inch of the way for him. "Thank you, John Watson. Whatever would I do without you?"

John hugged his friend tightly, smiled gently, and got to his feet. The room was thick with emotion. Rather too much for either man to comfortably cope with. "I hope you never have to find out." He smoothed the bedclothes down around Sherlock. John's expression turned mischievous. "Time for you to sleep, Tiddles, try not to fall out of the window this time."

John escaped, giggling, through the bedroom door just as Sherlock threw a pillow at him.

**_Author's Note: _**** The idea for this story first came from a conversation with my friends Angela and Chantal about a stray cat named Sherlock, which turned into a conversation about Sherlock AS a cat. That's when a rather creepy supernatural short story by Dame Agatha Christie called "The Strange Affair of Sir Arthur Carmichael" poked its nose out of my Mind Palace and coughed to get my attention. The Strange Affair etc" originally appeared in an anthology entitled "The Hound of Death and Other Stories". It's well worth a read if you can find it somewhere.**

**Thanks to Lyn and Angela for the beta reads.**


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